“So you are the Pucelle?” he cried.
“I am Jeanne the Maid, messire,” she answered, regarding him with grave earnestness. “And you, I doubt not, are that Burgundy who hath beguiled the gentle King with fair words and false promises?”
“I am Philip, Duke of Burgundy,” he replied haughtily. “What I have done hath been for our royal master, Henry, King of England and of France.”
“Ay! and for your country’s wreck and woe.”
“Those are bold words, Pucelle,” ejaculated the duke, flushing. “Have a care. Neither man nor witch may so speak to Burgundy.”
“My lord duke, if they be not true then most humbly do I 334 entreat your pardon. If they be not true, why then do you besiege the good city of Compiègne, bringing suffering upon your own people? They are French, as you are.”
“The city was promised me,” he uttered angrily. “Charles the Dauphin gave it me. ’Twas in the truce. He broke his faith.”
“And how kept you yours?” asked the girl dauntlessly. “I think, my lord, that Paris once was promised Charles. How was that faith kept?”
But Philip, without reply, turned upon his heel angrily, and left the room. Forthwith he sent dispatches to the Regent, to the Dukes of Brittany and Savoy, to his city of St. Quentin, and to the town of Gand that all Christendom might know that the Witch of the Armagnacs was taken.
“By the pleasure of our Blessed Creator,” he wrote, “such grace has come to pass that she whom they call the Maid has been taken. The great news of this capture should be spread everywhere and brought to the knowledge of all, that they may see the error of those who could believe and lend themselves to the pretensions of such a woman. We write this in the hope of giving you joy, comfort, and consolation, and that you may thank God our Creator.”